


same mistakes

by bluelines



Category: Hockey RPF, Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: F/F, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 15:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelines/pseuds/bluelines
Summary: Marie and Hilary are always pitted against each other, but there has to be an upside to it somewhere.





	same mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I am honestly shocked people haven't written more of these two so I figured I'd give it a go. This starts in 2010 at the Olympics and carries on from there.

The bar has a stupid name.

Hilary clings to that because it’s not about hockey. Naming a gay bar ‘Lick’ just seems absurd to her, and she tells Kacey that four times before Kacey disappears into a crowd of women by the bar. She’s not ditching Hilary, really, because she asked if it was okay for her to go, but Hilary still feels ditched and miserable.

Silver _sucks_. 

Eventually she gives up and goes to the bar. They’ll serve her here, which is probably the only nice thing about being in Vancouver, considering the amount of maple leaves everywhere she looks. Kacey didn’t seem to care much--she was on a mission--but for Hilary it’s annoying, like she can’t stop thinking about it. A beer will help, maybe. Hopefully.

It’s at the bar that someone sort of jostles her. She only gets annoyed when she sees who it is. Poulin is a kid but she’s of drinking age, apparently, with a beer in one hand and a flush to her cheeks that tells Hilary exactly how buzzed she is.

“This place,” she says, smiling, “it’s called Lick. Isn’t that funny?”

“I guess,” Hilary says noncommittally, palming her beer, but she’s not sure how she’s supposed to react. Poulin’s the reason she’s going home with silver and they both know that. It’s not the kind of game you expect to have a friendly conversation after.

“You played a good game,” Poulin tells her, and Hilary can’t help but bristle. It sounds like a chirp until she thinks about it and tries to remember if she’s ever even heard Poulin chirp _anyone_. She hasn’t, and it doesn’t really seem like something she’d do. It still doesn’t feel great to hear from her.

“Okay,” Hilary replies, “I mean, thanks.”

For a few seconds they just stand there. Hilary turns away a little, leaning against the bar and looking out into the crowd to see if she can spot Kacey again. Poulin doesn’t leave, though, instead she clears her throat and tries again. Hilary can’t stop thinking about the fact that a kid like this, kind of awkward and gangly, made them all feel so stupid on the ice.

“I’m playing in America next year,” Poulin says. “Boston University.”

“Well, I’m in Wisconsin,” Hilary tells her.

“Oh,” she says, like she’s not really sure of it.

“So,” Hilary says, “different division.”

“I know,” is the response she gets, and Marie actually sounds a little defensive, which doesn’t make Hilary feel as good as she thought it would. The beer isn’t, really, either. 

She eventually does catch sight of Kacey again, off in a corner. It’s too dark to see who Kacey’s with but it’s not too dark to see what they’re doing, and it makes Hilary remember what the point is of being there, or at least what it’s supposed to be. When she tips her beer back, she catches Poulin watching her mouth, and it gives her an idea. A fantastically stupid idea.

“I’m getting some air,” she says, and when Poulin doesn’t invite herself out she says, “you can come if you want.”

She uses the side entrance, an unmarked one that leads onto a side street instead of where they came in before. At first she’s not sure that Poulin actually came with her, but when she turns to close the door she realizes she’s not alone and doesn’t bother. For a moment she just stands there, realizing that without something to smoke--like people do in movies and TV shows--it’s painfully obvious why they’re out here.

“Are you going back?” Poulin asks.

“No,” Hilary says.

“What are we doing?” Poulin asks, and Hilary decides she’s not going to wait for her to figure it out.

Hilary tugs her in with a hand on the collar of her jacket, but she hesitates at the last second, wondering if she should have asked first. For a heartbeat Marie looks shocked to her, but then she closes the distance between them and Hilary matches her eagerness when the kiss finally happens. Poulin has her hands fisted into Hilary’s jacket at the waist all of a sudden, and they’re swaying a little bit, not enough that they’re at risk of toppling over but enough that it’s disorienting. It goes on until Hilary feels like she needs to pull away, and when she does Poulin is looking at her almost _smugly_. She hadn’t looked smug on the ice.

“Shut up,” Hilary says, jostling Poulin back against the bricks.

She’s glad they’re doing this outside in relative privacy instead of inside where her teammates could catch her, not because she’s afraid they would judge her, exactly, but because that means Marie’s teammates could see them. Hilary doesn’t need that headache. This time the kiss is more aggressive, with her hands on Poulin’s collar still and the smaller girl’s hands on her hips.

When she deepens the kiss it doesn’t seem like Poulin’s ready for it, and she seems surprised when Hilary’s hand slips under her sweater, too. That makes Hilary pull back, and in the streetlights she looks down at Marie and remembers again how young she is. Not exactly how young she is--but remembers that she’s young. Younger.

“Listen,” Hilary says, “have you even done anything with a girl before?”

“Yes,” Poulin replies indignantly, resting her head back against the wall, “of course. Not--”

“Jesus,” Hilary says, taking a step back.

“You have?” Marie asks, and it’s a genuine question, which somehow doesn’t offend Hilary as much as she would have thought.

“Go celebrate or something,” Hilary says, shoving her hands into her pockets, “we don’t have to talk about this.”

“You wanted to,” Marie says, clearly a little hurt, and Hilary feels bad for a second.

“I’m tired,” she says, which is obviously a lie. 

“Whatever,” Poulin says, and disappears back inside, disgusted. Hilary takes a second, and another deep breath. She doesn’t feel _that_ bad, because Marie still has a gold medal and the rest of the night. When she pushes back inside, she sees Kacey immediately, alone now but agitated like she’s looking for someone.

“Hey,” Hilary says, and Kacey jumps.

“Jesus,” she says, “I was looking for you. We gotta go.”

“Okay,” Hilary says, “now? Why?”

“I can’t hang out here,” Kacey says, “I...listen. I’ll explain in two seconds. But in one second a very angry, very dishevelled Canadian is going to come out of that handicapped bathroom, and I need to be gone, and you have the room key.” 

“Which Canadian?” Hilary asks, once they’re a few blocks away toward the Village.

Kacey rubs her nose with her sleeve. Hilary already can’t feel her toes, but there aren’t any taxis anywhere that she can see, so they’re going to have to suffer.

“The goalie,” Kacey says, “Labonte. Because, you know. I mean, she’s cute. But also because it’s not like she scored any goals.”

Inwardly, Hilary cringes, but Kacey doesn’t notice even if any of it shows. She’s too busy being smug about it now that Hilary’s asked.

“In the bathroom,” Hilary prompts, and Kacey shrugs.

“I wasn’t going to take her back with me,” she says.

“You could have gone outside or something,” Hilary says, “that’s what I did. I mean, we didn’t-- wasn’t like, whatever you did in the bathroom that pissed her off, but it was quiet out there at least.”

“You?” Kacey says, looking up, “who did you get outside with you?”

Hilary frowns, clenching and unclenching her fists in her jacket pockets to make sure all her fingers are still there.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” she mumbles.

“I’m not,” Kacey says, elbowing her, “c’mon.”

“I pissed her off, too,” Hilary says. Kacey doesn’t ask her who a second time, just shrugs. 

“Well, at least I got her off first,” she says. “That has to count for something.”

Hilary plugs her ears and Kacey laughs. 

-

“Kacey Bellamy,” Charlie says, sweeping into their room smelling of mixed drinks and other people’s cigar smoke, “is a bitch.”

Marie has to take a second to remember who that is. She nods, knowing Charlie well enough to know she’s not expected to say anything, and Charlie goes on, wobbling, holding onto the dresser to kick off her boots.

“Americans are useless in the sack,” she continues, “as they are on the ice.”

Marie blushes immediately and violently, and fights the urge to bury her face in a pillow. Instead she sits silently, hoping that Charlie won’t notice, but she does, of course, and turns back, blinking, to look Marie up and down.

“Pou,” she says, “Bebepou, what did you do?”

“No one,” Marie blurts, and realizes her mistake too late.

“My God,” Charlie says, her accent thicker than Marie’s ever heard it, at least in English. She starts to say something and then considers herself and says instead, “I have no room to talk tonight, but wait until tomorrow.”

“I didn’t,” Marie insists, “it was just kissing and,” she stops, forcing herself to lie even though she knows it comes out awkwardly and obviously false as soon as she opens her mouth, “she wasn’t even any good at it.”

“I told you,” Charlie says, shrugging out of her jacket and almost toppling over, “didn’t I tell you? They’re useless. Find yourself a nice Anglo and call it a night.”

-

Hilary doesn’t want to be thinking about Marie. 

Thinking about her silver medal is worse, and thinking about going home and having to do school again after all of this is even worse than that. She tells herself that’s how she’s ended up lying on her back in her hotel room thinking about how things might have been if Marie hadn’t shied away from her when she deepened the kiss, and being distantly jealous of Kacey.

“What did you even do?” Hilary asks out loud when Kacey wanders out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth.

“Nothing,” Kacey says around her toothbrush, “she’s just fucking crazy.”

Hilary frowns at the ceiling, and when someone knocks on their door and she sees the clock reads three in the morning she knows it can’t be anyone but Meghan. Kacey lets her in and goes back into the bathroom to spit, and Meghan smiles at Hilary before following Kacey, leaning into the doorjamb.

“You,” she says, “fucked up so, so bad, Kace.”

“Leave me alone,” Kacey says, “I’m already hungover.”

“What did you even do?” Meghan asks, and Hilay sits up again, hoping that she’ll hear the answer this time. Kacey mumbles, though, and Hilary’s just given up when Meghan exclaims.

“What?” She half-shouts, like she needs hearing aids, “you wouldn’t let her--”

“Shut up,” Kacey hisses violently, moving past her towards her bed and flopping onto it facefirst.

“She’s so mad,” Meghan says, “I can’t believe how mad she is. Why didn’t you just let her?”

“Knighter,” Kacey says into the bed, “you’re not hearing any of this. Right?”

“Right,” Hilary says, but Meghan grins at her again.

“Ask Knighter what her night was like,” Kacey says, rolling onto her back, and Meghan looks back at her again with her eyebrows raised. With Meghan there Hilary feels a little bit more like bragging than she had right after it all happened, so she shrugs and tries to play it off. 

“I made out with a Canadian,” she says, “and pissed her off because that’s all I would do.”

“Sounds like Kacey lite,” Meghan laughs, and Kacey glares at her, propping her head up on one hand.

“So,” Meghan continues, sitting on the bed by Kacey’s feet, “you can’t drop that on us and not tell us who.”

“Poulin,” Hilary blurts, and knows as soon as she has that she’s said it wrong entirely. Kacey’s mouth falls open, and Meghan laughs, throwing her head back like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in her entire life.

“You blueballed Canada Clutch,” Meghan cackles.

“She deserved it,” Kacey says, “I can get behind that.”

They go quiet then, thinking about the game. The point of all this was to _not_ think about the game, and it makes them all somber. Hilary flops back onto the bed and Kacey rolls over, pressing her face back into the mattress

“We’ll get them next time,” Meghan says, patting Kacey’s ass. She gets distracted and just keeps tapping it, grinning again, and Kacey reaches back to swat her hand away.

“Go to bed,” Kacey whines.

“Enjoy your last night on Earth,” Meghan replies.

-

Marie doesn’t see Hilary again until Worlds, where the Americans win and Hilary is their superstar and Marie feels washed up and embarrassed and jealous. 

“Listen,” Gillian says, her hand on the back of Marie’s neck, “we did the best we could do. Sometimes we lose. It happens.”

“I could have scored,” Marie says, and she feels it in her gut like there’s a knot there, winding and winding. She blinks hard, looking down at her medal, and tries not to look up or think about team USA celebrating across the rink.

“Anyone could have scored,” Gillian says, “that’s the beauty of the game. It’s only your second World’s. You have plenty of time to win.”

Marie doesn’t say it, but what she’s thinking is that she wanted to win tonight, and that, if USA had to win--which does happen, she knows, it’s a part of the game and it’s part of what makes it so great when _they_ do win--it annoys her that it had to be Hilary. That it had to be such a beautiful goal. 

Afterwards, Charlie tries to drag her out again, and Marie resists it, groaning.

“I just want to sleep,” she says, and Charlie tugs her by the sleeve, out the door of their room and into the hallway.

“Sleeping off a bad loss is like sleeping off a night of drinking,” Charlie says, as if that means something. Marie stares at her until she elaborates.

“Best way to get a hangover is to go to sleep too soon,” she explains, and Marie scrunches up her nose.

“That sounds like you made it up,” she says, and Charlie shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “You’re coming, petit caneton. You need to drink and have a good time.”

Marie sulks the whole way there. ‘There’ is a place called Barfusser that Marie spends five minutes trying to pronounce before she gives up, much to Gillian’s delight.

“You’re too French to speak German,” she laughs, “that’s classic.”

“Isn’t it Swedish?” Marie asks, and Gillian shakes her head.

“It means barefoot in German,” she explains, and Marie really does pretend to care.

“Where’s Charlie?” She asks, and Gillian points with her beer. Marie has to peer through the crowd to see it, but there’s Charlie, dancing with a girl she doesn’t recognize, and not someone who looks like a player.

“Playing it safe,” Gillian says, and laughs, like she knows what Marie was thinking.

It’s another twenty minutes before the Americans arrive.

“For fuck’s sake,” someone--Marie can’t see who--shouts over the din, “there’s more than one gay bar in Zurich.”

Half of the American players raise a middle finger in unison. Marie catches sight of Hilary and knows that she’s blushing, but she hopes the bar isn’t well lit enough for anyone to tell. 

-

This time Hilary’s less surprised when Marie runs into her. It’s on purpose, she can tell from the look on Marie’s face, like she’s pissed off but kind of excited at the same time. Hilary feels great. She’s felt great all day, and has only felt better as the night’s gone on, and seeing Marie doesn’t dampen that at all. This time it’s _her_ with a gold medal around her neck. She’s not sure when ‘Poulin’ became Marie, but she is sure she doesn’t want to think about it.

“You ditched me last time,” Marie says, as a way of starting the conversation, and Hilary laughs incredulously.

“I was being responsible,” she says, “you’re a kid. Were a kid. Whatever.”

“I’m not a kid,” Marie replies suddenly, and Hilary actually looks her over. She does look older now. More sure of herself, maybe. Mostly she looks like she lost, which, Hilary thinks, is kind of a good look on her--tired and ticked off.

“Okay,” Hilary says, “I didn’t want to be that douchebag to make your first experience some kind of drunk, messy rivalry hookup. I don’t understand why that’s worth getting pissed about. Like, you’re welcome.”

“I’ve done it,” Marie insists, and Hilary feels like she’s in some parallel universe while she checks to make sure nobody she knows is there to hear them, “I’ve done a lot of things now.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Hilary hisses, but now she’s noticing how Marie’s shoulders have filled in, how her ugly flannel fits her arms.

“You know why,” Marie says, but she looks unsure of herself all of a sudden. Hilary thinks about kissing her again, how easy it would be to do, how annoyed Marie is and how much fun it would be to pin her down and make her even more annoyed. Plus, if Marie wants to take out her being annoyed on Hilary _while_ having a good time...Hilary can’t really see a reason to complain.

“Yours,” she asks, finishing her beer, “or mine?”

-

Marie texts Natalie to beg her to leave the room alone for the next two hours and doesn’t get a response. She puts out the ‘do not disturb’ sign and uses the burglar lock, just in case. Hilary watches her, standing there in her t-shirt, shedding her jacket and folding it and putting it down politely on the desk chair. Marie wants to be mad at her some more, but Hilary makes it difficult.

For a moment they face each other, and then Hilary clears her throat.

“You’re not really convincing me that you have any more experience than last time,” she says, and Marie takes it as a challenge.

“You didn’t take your shoes off,” she says, and Hilary gives her a look, but she kicks off her shoes anyway. Marie’s about to explain that it’s rude when she realizes that’s not going to help anything and grabs Hilary by the front of her t-shirt into a kiss instead. She misjudges a bit but they make up for it immediately, and Hilary reaches and holds her by the waist. Marie’s other hand floats up to Hilary’s shoulder because she’s not quite sure where to put it yet, but she does have experience now, and she knows that she’s good at this, all of it.

She takes her time kissing Hilary partially because she needs that time to get the guts up to do anything else. Hilary kisses back harder, challenging her, and Marie bites down on Hilary’s lower lip. When Hilary makes a sound--something like surprise in the back of her throat--it’s the first that Marie’s ever heard from her, and she wants to keep it coming all night.

She pushes at Hilary’s shoulders until Hilary lets go of her and takes a step back toward the bed, but that’s not really good enough. She shoves Hilary again, this time like she means it, like they’re on the ice, and Hilary grins at her when she stumbles back toward the bed. It’s not like Marie at all, but she kind of likes that, likes the opportunity to be someone else for the night.

One more half-serious push and Hilary flops back onto the bed. Marie hesitates, unsure for a moment what she wants to do next. If she were the type, she’d undress herself and make Hilary watch her, but the thought of that makes her horribly nervous. She doesn’t really want Hilary to see her, so instead of waiting another second she clambers onto the bed on top of Hilary and kisses her again.

Hilary’s hands go to her hips and Marie pushes against her, the two of them shifting until Marie can get a thigh between Hilary’s and rock into her. Hilary’s not expecting that, maybe, because she gasps and rocks up into the pressure, and Marie feels a rush of excitement when she realizes that means she’s doing something right. 

She has definitely done this before, but Hilary’s bigger than her and that’s new. She’s isn’t sure how she feels about it at first, but it doesn’t really matter so long as she has Hilary under her, trying to keep her composure. Marie is tired of Hilary’s composure. 

It doesn’t last long. Marie kisses Hilary until her lips are numb, and rocks into her until Hilary turns her head away to breathe. Her hands are still on Marie’s hips, but Marie’s hipbone is caught between Hilary’s legs when she tries and fails to speak. She has to try again.

-

She’s going to finish before anyone gets any clothes off if Marie doesn’t let up and she knows it.

Hilary can’t stand the idea that _Marie_ might know it. She knows she could get off again, but she had talked so much shit about Marie not knowing what she was doing that she’d never live it down. She pushes at Marie’s hips, and Marie stops moving.

“Your hip,” Hilary says, as if Marie’s hipbone isn’t exactly why she’s ten seconds from losing it, “your hip is too hard.”

Marie maneuvers so that her thigh is between Hilary’s instead, and that helps, but not much. Hilary badly needs to get on top without making it clear that she’s desperate. They stare at each other for a few seconds before she makes a move for Marie’s shirt, and then they’re a flurry of activity, both of them shedding clothes.

Marie is more cut than Hilary expected. She feels like most college players aren’t, or the ones she’s seen without clothes on, which is pretty much just her teammates. It’s like all of Marie’s baby fat is in her face and there’s none left for anything else. Hilary doesn’t want to get caught staring so she’s not sure if Marie has a six-pack, but it seems like a safe bet. She thinks about flipping them again before Marie reaches down to touch her over her bra.

She does it with this intense look of concentration that really should be funny. Hilary is about to laugh when Marie’s thumb does something that makes her gasp instead. When she does, Marie turns pink, and Hilary realizes she must like that. Hearing things.

She’s trying to figure out how much to take off when Marie leans down and kisses her neck. It’s a lot of attention for Hilary, but she forgets that when Maire does that thing with her thumb again, and this time with Marie’s mouth on her throat the sound that comes out is less of a gasp and more of a groan.

Hilary realizes that Marie has settled between her knees only once she realizes that she misses the pressure of Marie’s hip or thigh. She doesn’t want to ask. She trails her hands from Marie’s hips along her back, and then, when it feels too intimate, she digs her nails in just a little bit, because it feels like the thing to do. Because Marie is hot, but she’s still Canada clutch, and Hilary’s supposed to have some kind of agenda here other than--

She forgets. Marie’s hand slides down Hilary’s stomach and Hilary forgets everything.

-

Marie doesn’t lose her concentration until her hand is between Hilary’s legs, over her underwear. Then, confronted with what they’re doing, with the totally undeniable fact that Hilary really wants this and maybe her, apparently her, she hesitates. All she can do for a few seconds is stroke over cotton and try to work up the courage to do more. She can’t back out now. She doesn’t want to. But she wants it to be perfect. She wants it to be good enough to blow Hilary’s mind. She wants it to be good enough that Hilary is even the tiniest bit less smug.

Hilary must think Marie is teasing, because she squirms. Marie is distracted by the muscle in Hilary’s torso when she does, which doesn’t help anything. When Hilary’s hands go back to Marie’s hips, Marie takes a deep breath and slides her hand down the front of Hilary’s underwear. 

Hilary huffs out an impatient breath before Marie can get the angle right. She digs her fingernails back into Marie’s shoulders, and Marie wishes they had turned a light on. She wants to see this.

“Just take them off,” Hilary says. Marie feels a flash of annoyance and embarrassment, because she knew she could have but for some reason it had seemed daunting to her and she hates the idea that Hilary thinks she’s halfassing it. She reminds herself that she’s already lost tonight and withdraws her hand. Hilary makes a face before Marie shoves her underwear down over her hips, then narrowly avoids kicking Marie in the face trying to get them off.

Marie’s frustration boils over and she pins one of Hilary’s wrists to the bed. She leans down to kiss Hilary again, and Hilary makes a surprised sound against her mouth when she does, when her hand finds its way back between Hilary’s legs. This time the angle is easy, it’s all easy, and Hilary has to turn her head away to breathe. Marie takes the opportunity she’s given and moves her mouth to Hilary’s neck. 

She hardly realizes what she’s doing before she’s sucking a bruise against Hilary’s neck, in a _very_ obvious place. She stops herself and sits back on her heels, concerned about Hilary’s reaction, but that means that her other hand stops too, and Hilary doesn’t seem to notice the hickey at all. She’s too busy rocking her hips against Marie’s stationary hand, clawing at her shoulders and her upper arms, and then Marie gets distracted watching Hilary move, placing her hand flat on Hilary’s stomach. Even without a light on she can see so much, skin and muscle and Hilary’s dark hair spilling across the pillow. Hilary isn’t self conscious at all. Marie envies her ability to just take what she wants. 

Hilary’s knees knock against her hips, and Marie gets the hint. She drops back down and buries her face in Hilary’s neck and doesn’t let herself get distracted. It’s not long before Hilary’s breathing changes, gets louder and staggered. Her back is starting to sting from Hilary scratching at her, but she knows it’s a good sign. She knows it’s an even better sign when Hilary goes completely still, clamping her knees around Marie’s hips. Marie is still holding Hilary’s wrist down when she comes, and Hilary isn’t quiet about it when she does. Marie forgets to care about that.

She forgets until Hilary stops shaking and takes a shuddery breath.

-

“Roll over,” she says. She’s surprised at how shakily it comes out, but Marie obeys instantly, and Hilary is kind of into that. The way her legs are still wobbly she’s pretty sure she could be into anything right now, but having Canada’s hotshot sprawled out on her stomach is kind of approaching the level of awesome that scoring the game winner was. 

She's really, really ripped. Hilary tries to remember if she's ever tried to hit Marie on the ice before and reminds herself not to try it anytime soon. 

“Are you just gonna look?” Marie asks, and it squeaks out of her like she's trying to hold it back.

“Shut up,” Hilary says, “I won, I can do what I want.”

“Is that how it works?” Marie asks. She sounds nervous, but she's making an effort to be cool about it, joke about it. Hilary’s nervous too. She can tell that Marie knows she's full of shit. She wants Marie on her stomach so she can't watch her panic and try to decide what she's going to do. Every other time Hilary’s slept with someone--and there really aren't many--she had lots of time to build up to it. This is rushed. She's thinking too hard about it. 

“Shut up,” she says again, and Marie snorts out a laugh into her wrists, pushing up onto her knees a little. She's a lot more confident suddenly, and Hilary has a feeling it has a lot to do with watching her get off. 

Hilary finally works up the nerve to do something. She slides one hand from Marie’s lower back up to her shoulders and then back down again. Marie’s back is fucked up from where Hilary was scratching her, but Hilary can feel the hickey that Marie left beginning to bruise, so she calls it even. 

She gets up into her knees, trailing a hand along the dip of Marie’s lower back, and then she tugs Marie’s underwear over her hips. She doesn't want Marie to see her face, but it feels too impersonal like this, so she pushes at Marie’s hip until she rolls over onto her back. She's bright pink. Hilary has never seen anyone blush so much. Marie bites her lips and closes her eyes when Hilary settles between her knees and places her hands on Marie’s thighs. 

“How do you like--” Hilary breaks off. She’s still not good at talking about this stuff, not smooth or anything even close, but she knows she has to. She wants to do what Marie wants. The rivalry just means she wants to do it so well that Marie loses her mind a little.

“You wanna show me?” Hilary asks. 

Marie turns a shade of red that Hilary had not known was possible on a human being. She fumbles with Hilary’s right hand, bringing it between her legs, and Hilary licks her lips. Marie doesn’t let go of her wrist right away, and Hilary realizes eventually it’s because she’s not doing enough. Marie wants more pressure, and when she gets it she lets go of Hilary’s wrist and turns her head, grasping uselessly at the comforter.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s obvious now that Marie has a lot more experience than the last time Hilary kissed her. She knows exactly what she wants, and Hilary’s a little bit surprised by that, by how needy Marie is, how her hips won’t stay still. She watches her hand for a minute, until her legs get tired from her sitting back on her heels, and then she leans down. With their fronts pressed together, she can feel how hot Marie is, and it’s not just from the blushing. Her eyes are closed, and closes her own, too, going by touch alone. Marie is louder than she expected, and it’s not just her breathing. By the time she starts to feel Marie’s legs shake, Marie is trying and failing to hold back moans every time Hilary’s hand moves. 

She’s silent when she comes apart, though, finally touching Hilary again to hold onto her by the hips. As bold as she was with Hilary beneath her, Marie is hesitant to touch Hilary now, with her legs trembling and her breath caught in her throat.

It’s kind of cute.

Hilary rolls off of her. Marie continues to shake next to her for a bit. It’s not for very long, but long enough that Hilary feels properly smug about it; she’s proven she’s as good in bed as she is on the ice, which isn’t easy to say, especially today when all the pucks seemed to bounce her way. They’re laying close enough that their arms are touching, but it isn’t as weird as Hilary expected it to be, lying there naked together. It should probably be more weird.

-

“That was good,” Marie says. She’s not sure why she says it. What she knows is that she sounds like an absolute moron, and that she’s inflated Hilary’s ego even more, which had been the opposite of the point.

Hilary turns her head to look at her, and Marie knows she’s blushing again. She’s not sure she’ll ever stop. She’s almost positive that she’s going to blush again the next time she has to shake Hilary’s hand on the ice, too.

“Yeah?” Hilary says, and then she grins, that stupid, cocky grin that got Marie here in the first place.

“I mean it wasn’t bad,” Marie amends, and Hilary laughs. She’s really pretty, which isn’t a word that Marie would have used before now. It’s true, though. In the moment, anyway.

“We can do it again sometime,” Hilary says, after she’s finished laughing and Marie is appropriately red. “If we’re both still single at the next tournament. And you’d want to. I’d do it again.”

She’d do it again. Hilary would do _that_ again. More, maybe. Marie stares at Hilary’s mouth and thinks about it on more parts of her body. It takes her a long time to answer.

“Yeah,” she says. “Okay, yeah.”

It’s sort of a disappointment, though. She doesn’t want to be done yet. She kind of wants to roll over and make another mark on the other side of Hilary’s neck, just to be thorough. She looks at the spot, just above Hilary’s collarbone, and Hilary looks at her.

“Hey,” Hilary says eventually. Marie tears her eyes away from Hilary’s neck to make eye contact, even though she’s embarrassed.

“Hey,” Marie answers. It feels like a trap when Hilary smiles at her, slowly, full of mischief. Hilary sits up, and Marie gets distracted again, this time by Hilary’s abs, and the length of her torso.

Hilary’s smile grows until she says, “You wanna go again?”


End file.
